Beholder's Eye (24 page)

He spread his hands and let them fall again to his knees. “Enough to want to be the one who finds her first, Nimal-Ket.”

The moment hung between us, an innocent pause on the part of the melancholy Human, a poignant eternity to me.
How easy to reveal myself; how wonderful to reconnect with my Human Web; how potentially disastrous.

As long as Ragem wore the telltale, my lips—and form—were sealed. But there were other ways to answer the bond between us. “This Ket knows the station and many who live here well, Paul-Human,” I said. “I will help you look for this Esen.”

A smile lit his too-thin face. “Any help you could give me would be wonderful, Nimal-Ket. Thank you.”

I stood and pointed to the pad behind me on the floor. “First, this Ket would appreciate being permitted to finish your massage, Paul-Human. It does my reputation little good to be seen with a being as tight as a week-old Crenosian water gourd.”

Ragem looked inclined to argue, but I tapped my fingers on the hoobit and kept my face carefully stern. Now was no time to let any personality show but that of a true Ket. And never would a Ket ignore the opportunity to practice her craft.

And while I worked, it would give me time to think of how to search convincingly for myself.

“ASK about any Ganthor.”

I turned my head to stare down at Ragem where he stood impatiently behind me. “Ganthor, Paul-Human? This Ket has seen none on Hixtar Station.”

“A good friend of Esen’s,” he lied glibly. “She might know—just ask, please, Nimal-Ket.”

While I was beginning to find all this rather entertaining, I was less sure about the attitude of the Human waiting behind the claims desk.
Nothing ventured,
I thought. “This Ket has also a claim against a Ganthor, Official,” I said firmly. “Are there any of these beings on-station?”

“Are there any other Gropers as credit-careless as you, madame? If so, I’ve been using the wrong ones!” I sighed inwardly and let the woman enjoy her chuckle. “Nope. No Ganthor has made a transaction through us during the last month. But Ganthor prefer exchange to credits anyway, so who knows? Any more bad debts to check?”

I shook my head, bowed, and backed away, having to push Ragem to move him out of the path of the next being in line. One of the advantages to Hixtar Station was its lack of air tags or other monitoring devices. Beings came and went here as freely as out in the Fringe. While this wasn’t helping Ragem’s or Kearn’s search, it had definitely helped cover my tracks.

Ragem walked beside me down the hall leading to the central corridor, scrutinizing the floor as if it would hold footprints he could read. This was slightly risky, giving the constant flow of pedestrian traffic moving to and from the station Claims and Credit Office, but no one ran into him.

“It was worth a try, Paul-Human,” I said soothingly. “But we are running out of reasonable avenues. Perhaps your friend is not on the station, after all?”

The murmur of voices and footsteps almost covered his whisper, as I was sure he intended. “What makes you think Esen is my friend, Nimal-Ket?”

I bumped shoulder to carapace with a hurrying Carasian—who should have known better than to try and squeeze its bulk between smaller beings in the first place—and mentally reviewed our conversations.
Damn.
Ragem had never referred to friendship. “Then this Ket is mistaken, Paul-Human.” To distract him, I turned down a side corridor, thankful it had a bit less traffic. My shoulder felt bruised. “Let us try another contact of mine.”

 

Of course, that person, however willing, knew nothing of any Lanivarian or Ganthor. And if they had, they would have claimed the reward.

“When did your captain add a reward to the posting?” I said a moment later, glad to stop and catch my breath. We watched the image and text play itself out in twenty languages, the message in some leaving a great deal to the imagination. The station needed to upgrade its translation programs. All were adequately, if distressingly clear about the substantial number of credits offered for information about the fugitive Lanivarian. I caught my Ketself, always conscious of the value of currency, wondering idly how to collect.
Stop that,
I scolded myself.

“There was another attack this afternoon,” Ragem said by way of explanation. “A ship was found empty in Sector 12.”

“Then it’s true. This thing is going to Panacia,” I said numbly. “It must be stopped! Why are you wasting time here, Paul-Human? Why isn’t your ship hunting in space instead of this station?”

Ragem looked past me and seemed to find the bustle of activity in front of the posting board not to his liking. “Over there,” he ordered, leading the way down yet another side corridor, Hixtar Station being more prone to haphazard additions than planning. This corridor was lined with less-than-high-class storefronts that looked very familiar. We stopped about thirty paces from the artifact dealer where I’d bought the hoobit now clutched between my fingers.
Ragem had a positive gift for being awkward.

“This isn’t a good neighborhood, Paul-Human.” I glanced at the passersby who looked to be taking morbid interest in us. “The clients are poor credit risks. And there have been instances of theft! This Ket recommends we go someplace else—”
Anyplace else.

Ragem ignored my good advice. Instead, he stretched up on his toes to bring his lips almost to my ear cavity and whispered urgently, “Why do you care about Panacia? And why are you helping me, Nimal-Ket? Is that even your right name?”

Trouble arrived at that instant in more than the warm breath of Ragem’s dangerous questions. We were both grabbed and held for the inspection of a hooded figure that looked distressingly familiar. Passersby were suddenly in a great hurry to leave our vicinity. I didn’t blame them. I didn’t like the looks of this either.

 

“Let go!”

I shook my head, fixing my gaze on the dusty treasures hanging from the ceiling. The Queeb’s back room must be well insulated. I could hear no sounds but our breathing.

It didn’t help being ready this time. I almost lost consciousness as the Queeb efficiently broke my second finger. Only ten to go, and the hoobit would be lost again. The strength of a Ket’s grip was proverbial. As a Ket, I was quite prepared to put up with both pain and death to hold what was mine.

But I wasn’t a Ket. I’d never experienced helpless agony like this in my five hundred years of life—nor in any of my shared memories. Yet I remained firmly in control of this form.
What a time to at last triumph over the instinct of self-preservation.

Ragem was tied up beside me; his telltale, which could have finally been useful and brought help, rendered useless by some illegal device of the Queeb’s accomplices. Ragem was as loud as I was silent, cursing the Queeb in its own tongue, taunting it, trying every thing he could to prevent—

Ersh,
I thought, as air escaped my lips in a moan,
is this what you wanted from me?

“There’s a customer out front.” A deep voice uttered words that made no sense.

Ragem’s cursing stopped. I realized through a fog that we were now alone.
That should mean something,
I wondered, dazed.
But what?

An urgent whisper. “Nimal. Nimal-Ket.”

I licked my lips and focused my eyes on Ragem. He was unharmed, except for the certain discomfort of the Queeb’s ropes wrapped tightly around his bare arms. My own arms persisted in their famed Ket sensitivity, transferring every pulse of fire from my fingers to my brain. There were tears on Ragem’s cheeks and blood dripped from where he’d driven his teeth through a bottom lip.
Dear Human,
I thought fuzzily.
And he doesn’t even know who I am.

And before the Queeb tried my resolve too far, it was time to leave. I unlocked my literal death grip on the hoobit, feeling the bones grind in my abused fingers as a pale echo of the Queeb’s torment. A Ket couldn’t let go, not in the face of a threat to its identity. Death defending one’s hoobit was a matter of honor.

They had tied my legs to the bench. I spared my broken fingers as best I could, making fairly quick work of the knots.

As I rushed to Ragem’s side, my footsteps echoed in the room, no matter how quietly I tried to move.
How long before the Queeb came back? Was there someone guarding the door?
I refused to worry about the near future and crouched to reach the knots behind Ragem’s back. They were much tighter than mine; he had struggled as well as shouted.

And he struggled now, in a well-meant effort to help me. “Please keep still,” I hissed through clenched teeth, not needing the additional pain as the rope shifted unpredictably through my fingers.

“Good enough,” he grunted. I took a step back as Ragem furiously pulled himself free of his bonds, throwing them to the floor. Immediately he came over to me and tried to see my hands.

“The best first aid will be getting out of here, Paul-Human,” I objected.

“No argument from me,” he said, shrugging his arms back into the sleeves of his coverall. The useless telltale received an absent kick out of his way as Ragem searched the room.

“What are you looking for?” I whispered, having found my hands ached less when wrapped around the hoobit. Most of the Queeb’s illegal stock had been packed, with more speed than care, into boxes labeled medical supplies. The hoobits I’d inspected yesterday were gone.

I had little doubt that my appearance on the station, combined with the arrival and search efforts of the
Rigus
crew, had been enough to panic the Queeb into flight. The irony of my being a welcome target for the grave robber’s revenge was not lost on me, but I was more interested in Ragem as he dug into a half-filled box.

“This will do nicely.” He brandished a swordlike object, its tip curved into a set of vicious hooks.

Assimilated memory painted a vivid picture of how the weapon worked in flesh, soft or scaled. I opened my mouth to protest, then met Ragem’s eyes.

Deliberately, he glanced down at my hands, then up again. “I’m not a violent person, Nimal-Ket,” he said slowly, his voice with an edge to it I’d never heard before. “I don’t want to become one. But I won’t sit by again.”

The Human gave me no time to argue. He made me crouch to one side of the only door to the room. I watched with interest as he shoved boxes here and there.
Ah.
Ragem now had a pile below the cluster of lights in the ceiling. He climbed it with primate agility and, with one wild swing, used his weapon to smash the cluster. The room plunged into darkness. I winced at the subsequent crash, hoping the fall of Ragem’s boxes was part of his plan.
They had to have heard that!

They did. The door burst open. The Queeb, possibly frantic at the sounds of damage to its trove, was first through. In the bar of light from the other room, I saw the glint of the sword as Ragem wrapped its hooked tip around the Queeb’s stubby neck.

Two other figures poured into the room, stumbling past Ragem and his hostage into the dark. Ragem moved fully into the light, blinding himself in order to make it obvious what the stakes were. And, given the white-knuckled force he was using to hold the Queeb and its death in contact, I thought he should be taken quite seriously indeed.

The darkness filling the rest of the room was a gift I didn’t hesitate to use. I cycled, freeing myself of pain and gaining teeth at the same instant. My keener nose located our hidden captors at once; it helped that most Humans sweat during a crisis. I sank my teeth into the soft muscle of one leg, then used my first victim’s shrieks to cover my assault on his comrade. This one wore high boots, so I wasted no time on legs. I wasn’t proud to enjoy the crunch of his wrist bone as I snapped it and jumped away.

All this screaming in the dark was unnerving both Ragem and his captive. “Nimal!” he shouted. “Leave her alone, or I’ll—”

I cycled, then gasped and almost went to my knees as form-memory exactly reproduced the broken fingers on each hand. Somehow I called out something that reassured Ragem. Avoiding the panic-stricken Humans, who sounded like they were climbing on boxes to avoid the teeth-filled darkness, I located my skirt and hoobit, hung both in their respective proper locations, and headed for Ragem.

The moment I reached the bar of light, he reversed his weapon and used its hilt to tap the Queeb briskly on the back. As the being dropped, obviously unconscious, to the floor, I said admiringly, “You have a fine grasp of anatomy, Paul-Human.”

“Enough to know you need a med, Nimal-Ket. Now.”

I COULD almost believe the mystics who confidently explained all matters, varying in importance from mundane to galactic, in terms of cosmic patterns preset from the beginnings of time.

I was in a box.

Again.

Not just any box. I now rested, for the second time in one life, within the same clear med box where I’d spent my first hours on board the
Rigus.

Of course, this time I was an honored guest, not a disease.
That did tend to improve matters.
I sipped nutrients from the straw thoughtfully left near my lips and settled back, relaxing in the reduced gravity the med-tech had programmed in for my comfort.

The Ket, while not everyone’s favorite life-form, were so widely known to be inoffensive and sensitive beings that the Humans on the
Rigus
had been quite affected by Ragem’s tale of my torture at the tentacles of the Queeb. Kearn himself had come to the station’s med center, insisting that I be transferred to the
Rigus.
While the station meds had grumbled, they couldn’t deny that I would heal more quickly in the ship’s state-of-the-art facilities.